


Portugal

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:59:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: Owen and George have to take part in a charity photoshoot, in a swimming pool of all places.Obviously, Owen hates it, but he'll put up with it - for George.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Portugal

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this](https://www3.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Owen+Farrell+George+Ford+England+Media+Access+KYw5tGJJXY7l.jpg) photo:
> 
> I couldn't resist it as a prompt, so I hope you enjoy!

It’s for charity, the coaches had explained the night before. It’s all for a good cause, so it’s worth having to miss a bit of training each to have a photo taken for the charity calendar. The funds will go to benefit a variety of causes, both rugby-related and not.

All the encouragement in the world wouldn’t be enough to make Owen happy about having to pose for the camera, though. Glowering for a Six Nations shoot or just generally looking intimidating – that, he can do. Pretending to be happy while having a camera shoved in his face is a stretch too far.

Perhaps the photography team had realised that, so they’ve stuck him with George for his shoot. With the whole squad involved, he wouldn’t have been by himself anyway (twelve months in the year, not thirty-two), but George’s involvement is clearly an olive branch. If one northern lad can submit to having his photo taken for a few minutes, maybe his attitude will rub off on the surlier one of the pair.

It’s decent logic, Owen is wiling to admit, but he’s still not feeling any positive emotions towards the photos. He supports Joining Jack anyway, and that doesn’t involve any excruciating photoshoots.

“Come on, grumpy,” George mutters under his breath as they walk out to the hotel pool. They’re in sunny Portugal for training camp, so at least it’s not February at Pennyhill – the temperature’s definitely higher than the British average, if not technically _warm_.

Owen crosses his arms over his chest. They’re both in swimming trunks and training shirts, although the shirts are going to have to come off soon enough. He’s going to go along with this stupid rigmarole because it’s the path of least resistance and he can go and have a shower sooner.

“Good morning, boys!” one of the photographers trills as they approach. She’s tiny – even shorter than George, Owen notes with amusement – and brandishing a camera that’s about as long as her arm. “Thanks for being on time; it makes everything easier.”

Owen just grunts. He may not be enthusiastic, but he’s not a dick. Eddie would have their heads, anyway.

The other photographer, a taller (but still shorter than Owen) man comes over to join them. “Hi,” he says, smiling. “I’m Tom, and I see you’ve already met Caroline. How much do you know about this shoot then, and the purpose behind it?”

“For charity, isn’t it,” George says promptly, letting Owen drop behind him. He’s good like that.

“Yep,” Caroline says. “You two are going to be our June pinups!”

“Obviously,” Tom adds, “you’ve been picked because of your popularity with a certain demographic, let’s say, but we’re not making any assumptions about your sexualities. You’re the Pride month boys because the target demographic seem to like you two. It’s nothing about what you yourselves are or aren’t, please remember.”

Owen coughs, and George digs his elbow into his side. “Obviously,” he echoes obediently. Tom and Caroline are apparently nicely oblivious to what’s actually going on in front of them, and he’s not going to be the one to enlighten them.

The two photographers chatter on for a few minutes about the positioning they’re thinking of and how best to arrange their subjects. George takes the unexpected break to kick him, and Owen instinctively tries to get him back.

“Come on, love,” George hisses. “It’s just a few photos, and for the gays as well. You can force a smile for that, surely.”

Owen purses his lips. He doesn’t want to make any promises, not even to George. It’s just so awkward for him, and he knows there’s no way out. Even having his boyfriend next to him, however deeply undercover they may be, isn’t easing the strain by much.

“Or are you going to look like you’ve got a dead mouse in your shoe in our wedding photos too?” George continues, and it’s enough to startle him out of his funk, at least temporarily. He’s not wearing shoes, he wants to protest, but Caroline’s talking again.

“If you could take your shirts off, please, boys,” she says, waving the camera around over the pool. “We’re going to start you off in the pool, passing a ball around – just try and relax, and we’ll see if we need some more posed shots in a few minutes.”

Owen grimaces, but tugs his shirt off over his head. At least this way, most of him will be underwater – getting all wrinkly and horrible, but not visible in the pictures.

He slides into the water, George right by his side like always. It’s a little chilly, and he has to rub at his arms to warm up. There’s a splash – Tom’s tossed a rugby ball into the pool in front of them, and he has to blink the chlorine out of his eyes before he can reach out to snag it.

“Okay, pass to me,” George says, and Owen has to work out how he’s supposed to do it. They’re in the deep end of the pool, and even he can’t touch the bottom. Thanking his lucky stars that nobody’s around to witness the humiliation, he kicks off from the side and treads water for a couple of seconds, then passes the ball to George.

He’s a little off target, and it ends up hitting him in the chest rather than going straight to his hands like it would normally. But this isn’t a normal situation – they’re in a pool being watched hawkishly by some photographers, for God’s sake.

George splutters, scrapes his wet hair off his face. “Is that the best you can do? Jesus, Owen, it can’t be that hard.”

His attempt smacks Owen on the shoulder, and he’s smugly justified despite the sting of pain.

Owen’s next try is at least closer, landing on the water between George’s outstretched hands and sending a spray of water into his face. If Tom and Caroline want any relaxed-looking photos, he thinks irritably, they might want to come back in a few hours once they’ve mastered this new style of passing.

The two out of the pool have clearly come to the same conclusion. “Boys, you’re looking a bit stiff,” Caroline calls. “Take a break for a minute, and we’ll try and come up with something else.”

Owen latches onto the side gratefully, George matching him. “I don’t know what they expected,” he mutters. “I’m not a bloody water polo player.”

George swats at his arm. “Yes, but you have some kind of hand-eye coordination, love. You could use some of it – and your manners.”

He doesn’t want to whine, but it is really a pointless exercise. There are plenty of photos of him and George looking gay together on the pitch, both fully clothed. If either of the photographers were gay or bi or in any way LGBT themselves, they would have noticed that and picked one of the existing pictures.

Still, he’s not a total arsehole, so he’ll behave. It helps that George lets their fingers tangle together under the water, far enough from the surface that anyone looking would think it a trick of the light. It’s grounding, even while they’re floating in the pool.

“Okay,” Caroline says, clapping her hands to draw their attention in a manner strangely reminiscent of Eddie. “We’d like to try some of you both out of the pool, just sitting on the edge.”

Owen obligingly boosts himself out by his arms and turns to sit like she wants – anything to get this over sooner. George hops out to join him a second later, water cascading off him and body glistening in the sunlight.

“Perfect timing with the weather,” Tom grins. “Right, so we’re going to try for some candid shots first – just you two talking, that kind of thing – and then we’ll show you what we’ve got before we decide if there’s any point continuing, okay?”

Owen feels kind of bad that they’ve registered his aversion to the shoot. It’s not them, really; he’s hated every single photoshoot he’s done for the past decade, starting with him and his dad at Saracens and ending up here, dripping wet next to a pool in Portugal.

“Alright,” George says, and Owen nods obligingly. “So, we just talk?”

“Yeah, talking, whatever,” Caroline says, already lining up her camera. “If you can get him to crack a smile, that would be much appreciated.”

What isn’t much appreciated is her sarcasm, but Owen gives it a go.

“You look like someone just kicked you in the balls,” George murmurs. “I know you can smile properly.”

Owen drops the pretence, sighs in exasperation. “Not like this,” he says, gesturing at the circling cameras. “I smile at you when we’re in private and it’s okay.”

“Lovers’ spats don’t sell!” Caroline calls, increasingly desperate. “Look happy, please!”

George reaches out and taps the jut of Owen’s hip. The simple touch is enough to steady him, and at least they’re not still in the pool right now. His boyfriend’s smiling at him encouragingly. Maybe he’s never had a natural ease in front of the camera, but he pretends not to love George every day. He can manage to let the mask slip for the moment – for the gays.

George seems to be following a similar train of thought, relaxing slightly as a more genuine smile comes to his face. “You know,” he says, a little louder now there’s nobody around to hear except the photographers, and they’re busy with their lenses and exposure and things like that, “you’re my target demographic, mate.”

It’s bold enough to startle a laugh out of him, legs kicking the water as he tosses his head back. When he looks at George again, he’s grinning proudly. “See? It’s not that hard.”

“It would be, without you,” Owen says, and it’s true. He wouldn’t be half as comfortable doing this shoot with Jamie or Maro or Elliot or literally any of the other guys. George gets him and his half-spoken idiosyncrasies, warts and all.

He looks like he appreciates the honesty at least, smiling softly at him and touching their little fingers together on the tiled poolside. It’s a subtle closeness they’ve perfected over the years, transferred onto the pitch with only a few false starts.

Ordinarily, if they were at home, Owen would go for a kiss about now, but he glances over to the photographers instead. They want the suggestion of scandal, he supposes, not the journalistic scoop of the year.

He and George continue to make doe eyes at each other for a few more minutes. It’s easier now – the sun’s mostly dried the water off his body, for starters.

“Okay,” Tom says finally. “I think that’s it. Good work in the end, lads.”

Owen huffs under his breath. “Tough first half, but we really came out strong after the break,” he murmurs to George.

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” he whispers back.

They get up, legs out of the pool at long last, and go over to join the photographers. Caroline hands them both a towel – good thinking; Owen had been fully prepared to run back through the hotel and get water everywhere – and they huddle round to look at the photos.

The first few are stiff, Owen can acknowledge. They’re focusing way too hard on the passing, so there are more frowns and glares than the photographers must have been going for.

Once they’re out of the pool, though, the ball abandoned at one side, the quality rapidly improves. They’re full-body shots, perhaps unsurprisingly given they’re trying to sell calendars here, but their interlinked fingers are just obscured by Owen’s thigh.

It’s innocent enough – their hands could have just fallen like that for a split second before they’d no homo-ed them apart – but it would be telling to the right people, and they are representing June.

The favourite of the photographers is almost the final picture, Owen and George looking at each other fondly. From the outside, it might look sweet enough, but the effort he knows George put in to achieve it makes it all the more endearing.

His boyfriend’s always been the one to take sappy photos, and Owen tries his best to indulge him.

“I think we have enough to go off here,” Caroline declares, and Tom nods in agreement. “Alright, thank you, boys. You’ll probably be sent a copy of the calendar when it’s done.”

They both nod, knowing a dismissal when they hear one. George walks away to pick up their shirts, and Owen hangs back for a second.

“Could you send them to me?” he asks quickly, not caring what it might look like from the outside. “You can get my email off someone.”

Tom agrees in spite of his obvious confusion, and Owen thanks him with a smile.

He may not like ‘cute’ candids, but George does, and he only wants to make his boyfriend happy.


End file.
